


Dandelion Seeds

by overtture



Category: Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Corruption, Gen, Hurt No Comfort, Mind Manipulation, Phil Watson-centric (Video Blogging RPF), Self-Hatred, Self-Reflection, Self-Worth Issues, Sensory Deprivation, The Crimson, Unreliable POV, Winged Phil Watson (Video Blogging RPF), ask to tag, mild possession, pspspsps hey redza fans come get ur food
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-28
Updated: 2021-01-28
Packaged: 2021-03-14 01:55:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,471
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29038980
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/overtture/pseuds/overtture
Summary: I’ve done all I can for him. What was it Techno had been saying? About the usefulness of a teacher running out when the main character student has learned all they needed?It begins to hum, an inhuman sound attempting to mimic humanity, a false voice originating from deep in its mouth instead of somewhere in the throat. Regardless, he feels his resolve finally shatter when the words, an old lullaby, spill forth into the dead silence. Despite everything, he leans numbly into its warmth, the only semblance of life, the idea of it in the empty nothingness they sat in.(It all started on a day like any other; all the salmon had swum to the sea. When my lover, she darted away down the stream...)I think I'm ready...(With a heart that she’d taken from me.)I'm ready to be free of this.(Or, in which Philza falls down a pitfall in an egg-shaped room into a world of confrontations with himself and something bigger than himself, and comes out a different man. Whether the Crimson takes, gives, or induces something entirely in the corrupted under its thrall is all a matter of perspective.)Based on the events of Philza's 1/28/21 stream.
Relationships: No Romantic Relationship(s), Ranboo & Technoblade & Phil Watson (Video Blogging RPF), Technoblade & Phil Watson (Video Blogging RPF)
Comments: 12
Kudos: 266





	Dandelion Seeds

**Author's Note:**

> this is my life. i see a stream, i write a fic in the hours afterwards, i impulse post. oh well, im having fun! i was looking for an excuse to write redza anyways so pspspsps colorza gang come get yalls content
> 
> as usual i'll come back and comb this again tomorrow! enjoy!

Laughter dissolves into nervous giggling. He thinks he hears something familiar, a name, his own, called in worried scorn and then in a frantic panic.

There’s water in his ears. The floor is firm. There’s a disturbance somewhere above him, and the light cuts out.

_What do you want?_

He feels... cold. There’s an endless void stretching out before him. He’s not sure if it extends in every direction-- he doesn’t dare move.

The voices are present but dim. Muted. He can’t make out their words.

_What do you want?_

Its mental presence is like its vines. Thin, tentative prying before creeping in, blatant. Doubling in size and length as he lashes out, cuts at its curious ends.

_What do you want?_

His ever-present exhaustion seems to... lift. It’s bizarre enough he pauses for just a moment. 

He hesitates.

_What do you want?_

He’s not sure where he begins and it ends. He’s not sure where it begins and he ends. He’s not sure where--

The voices’ tones are frantic. He can't tell if it's the voices in his head or the voices of his friends or which of those would even be real— and he can't find the will to care in that moment.

Especially if it's the voices in his head. He doesn’t want to listen to their fury at the moment, bigger fish to fry, and he abruptly ends his attempts to clear their words. How much longer must they berate him for past mistakes? For things out of his control?

_What do you want?_

His lungs burn for air. His exhaustion returns, with the gentle cradle of a weighted blanket with the easy silence.

Comfortable. Heavy.

_What do you want?_

_It’s okay to admit you’re weak,_ he’s told Techno time and time again. _It’s okay to admit when you aren’t okay._

_I’m okay._

_I’m lying._

_What do you want?_

He drags his fingers through his hair in frustration, his own, its own, their own, before they fall back to his sides, limp.

He’s tired.

Wilbur is dead. He should’ve saved him. He could’ve.

And now there was no going back. He knows, every single fractured piece of him knows he’s being irrational. That he’s being weak. That he’s being a child. He has people to look after. He still has to learn Tommy’s truths, the side of the entire story he's still neglected to get a read on. 

He's still gotta make it up to him. Someway. Somehow. Even if it means never speaking to him again. It's least he could do for the boy who's life he inadvertently ruined.

_What do you want?_

He knows things can never go back to the way they used to be. Easy breaths, a full fan of feathered wings, his happy kids, and sunshine. Simple days.

But he wants that. He wants simplicity. He wants full meals, not rationed preserves. He wants big, unapologetic smiles, not the shaky half-grimaces. He wants the wind in his face, the flap of fabric, the speed, the strength, the power, the freedom.

He wants to be free of this.

_What do you want?_

His lungs feel as though they’ve been burned from the inside out, but he opens his eyes and comes face to face with something that looks exactly like what he would see in a mirror, and he abandons the thought to study it. 

Its eyes are a gentle gold. Its smile is soft and almost reverent. 

Every inch of skin he can spot is unblemished by the battlefield his own bears. Its nose doesn’t have the point his own has, softened and aesthetically curved. His own chin has been rounded of its sharp edges on its figure. Its eyes are rounder, its eyebrows less severe, its wrinkles gentler-- kinder.

It cups his cheek and he winces at the tenderness of the gesture.

 _I’m so tired,_ it says. _I’ve carried this weight for so long. Surely, the others can carry on just a little farther?_

There’s a spike of... something in the back of his mind, and he forces his eyes open as they begin to flutter closed. _I need to help them. Techno wouldn’t make it without me. He needs someone._

 _Of course he does,_ it agrees, _but he has Ranboo... I saved Ranboo’s life and now he can save Techno’s in return to fulfil his debt._

_They don’t know each other well..._

_... but after the axe, they seem to be getting close._

He tilts sideways and its hands are softer, unscarred, unscathed by a lifetime of gunpowder, weaponry, hard lessons, as it catches him, cradling his front to its own.

_They go on an adventure every week, now._

He drops his chin on its shoulder. He can’t breathe.

_They don’t ever call. They don’t need me._

It wraps an arm around his lower back and another to cradle the back of his head. He can’t breathe.

_Techno doesn’t need a sword and shield any longer._

It, tenderly than he’s been touched in a long, long time, caresses the freshest of his scars, where his useless wings hang limp and crooked. It smooths his discordant feathers with forgiving fingers. He can’t breathe.

_He’s an adult, now. He’s outgrown his teacher. His first friend. His brother in arms._

_Isn’t that what I always wished? That he could live peacefully, happily, in a world that hates him?_

Numbly, he summons the last of his strength to grab at the back of its white haori. His fingers tangling in the fabric is the only thing keeping his arms up as he sags into the figure. He can’t breathe.

_He’s achieved that now. I’ve done all I can for him. What was it he had been saying recently?_

_About the usefulness of a teacher running out when the main character student has learned all they need?_

It begins to hum, an inhuman sound attempting to mimic humanity, a false voice originating from deep in its mouth instead of somewhere in the throat. Regardless, he feels his resolve finally shatter when the words, an old lullaby, spill forth into the dead silence. Despite everything, he leans numbly into its warmth, the only semblance of life, the idea of it in the empty nothingness they sat in.

(It all started on a day like any other; all the salmon had swum to the sea.)

_I think..._

(When my lover, she darted away down the stream...)

_I think I’m ready._

(With a heart that she’d taken from me.)

_I think I'm ready to be free of this._

* * *

He throws himself up, body jerking as he heaves as deep of a breath in as he’s able. 

The sun is blinding as the two figures acting as his shade stumble away in surprise. He raises his hand to block the worst of it as his eyes water, slowly pulling his legs beneath him and getting up on weak, shaky legs.

He stumbles as he means to step forward, to soak up more of the delicious warmth, and firm gloved hands catch him.

“Woah there!” A voice giggles, warm and deep as they move around him, wrap his arm over their shoulders, and supports their weight. “Don’t worry, everyone’s like that their first time out. Right, Ant?”

He blinks unsteadily as they help him stand properly, gain his bearings. His red kosode and white haori are almost blinding despite their comfort, the texture soft and just the right amount of rough on his unblemished skin. He rubs the sleeves between his fingers, tilting his head back as a large breeze drags at the fabric in a whirl of dandelion seeds and crisp spring air.

On instinct, he opens his wings a fraction to feel the strength, and smiles as the full fan catches and carries it beneath the feathers seamlessly. When he glances, rich wine wings twitch, downy white and ruddy black accents reflect warm light back up at him.

He throws himself eagerly to his feet even as his companions startle, throwing his full wingspan out to catch the wind. He can’t stop staring, even from his peripheral as he tests the tilt and strength of them.

He doesn’t entirely remember why the red is startling. He doesn’t really remember why he’s so, so glad to have wings he’s had his whole life. He doesn’t remember much at all at the moment, but he imprints the feeling of weightlessness as he glides in loose circles around his giggling companions.

But nothing but this euphoria, this joy matters. Nothing but this endless happiness and spark of reignited mischief in his heart he’d lost so long ago matters anyway, he realizes, so whatever he’d forgotten must not have been that important in the first place.

Like dandelion seeds on the breeze.

(Something large and tired finally, finally rests, deep in his chest.)


End file.
